Four Fifteen Thirteen
by bkppr1066
Summary: SUMMARY: In which the author's notes are longer than the story.


**Four Fifteen Thirteen**

A/N: Please don't review this. It isn't really a story. If you want to comment, please send a PM. I'll take this down if too many folks think it isn't appropriate. Longer A/N at the end. Thanks.

Maura had just finished stitching up the Y-incision on the latest victim. Already she was framing the conclusions she would draw in her report; no evidence of blunt force or penetrative trauma; widespread cardiac ischemia; cerebral anoxia. She would rule this a death from natural causes. She was washing her hands; she would change from her soiled scrubs and set to work writing the report. Before she did so the Headquarters public address system came alive:

"_This is a department wide emergency call. All duty personnel will report immediately to their section assembly areas for deployment assignments."_

Maura quickly crossed to the crime lab, where her AME had his office and the crime techs were already at work preparing mobile equipment for deployment to the scene, wherever it was. An all-call like this could only mean a major disaster, a fatal fire, structural failure, mass shooting, terrorist attack. They'd find out the details soon enough. Just as she was checking that the preparations were complete, her phone buzzed.

The marathon.

_Two explosive devices...unknown number of casualties...vicinity of finish line..._

She read through the incident description with shock and dismay. How dare they. She and Jane had run in that race; they'd solved two murders that day, and prevented a third and arrested a heinous felon. She fought down the urge to rage and weep, lying just below the surface; professionalism didn't mean not experiencing such feelings; it meant doing what was necessary despite them. She had a job to do.

Her phone rang; it was Jane.

"Where are you assigned?", she asked the detective.

"At the blast site. We need to do interviews and identify and collect evidence as quickly as possible. It's awful. This could take a long time, Maura..."

"Have you left yet?"

"No. I will in a few minutes."

"All right, I'll ride down there with you."

"No, Maura. It's dangerous. There might still be unexploded ordnance down there. You have to stay here. You'll be getting bodies soon enough."

Technically, Jane was right; her assigned duty station in this kind of situation was the morgue, receiving and analyzing bodies for evidence. But her assistant could handle that. She would not, _could not_, stand idly by when she knew she could do something that was more effective.

"The dead can wait, Jane. There are injured people who need attention _now_. All the doctors they have won't be enough. Is your trunk empty?"

Jane, taken aback by the odd turn Maura's argument had taken, gulped, then said, "What? Empty? Yeah. Why?"

"Equipment. It'll take me three minutes to get it together. I'll meet you at your car. Wait for me."

"Maura you can't.."

"No time Jane. See you in five minutes. And wear a vest."

It took almost exactly that long. She yelled for Susie, who came over to the equipment locker with a large lab cart, and together they loaded it up. She briefed Mason, her assistant medical examiner, (who was still fairly green, but smart and energetic) while they were doing that, then she threw a lab coat over her scrubs and hustled to the freight elevator.

Jane was waiting by her car.

"Open the trunk, Jane."

Jane stared at the load she was pushing. "What the hell is that?"

"Trauma kits. They can't have too many down there. Come on. Help me."

They loaded the car in seconds, got in, fastened belts. Jane turned to Maura with a solemn expression. "You realize this is not going to be pretty."

"Of course. This isn't my first time, sweetheart."

She placed her hand on Jane's hand, resting between them; they held each other's eyes for a moment. Kissed briefly for love and luck. Jane started the car.

"Let's go."

Jane put the car in gear and drove out of the garage.

A/N, extended: I know. This is merely a fragment. It's my way of coping.

When we think about a horrific event like yesterday's attack in Boston, we become mired in a sea of information, misinformation, misunderstanding and fear. Our consciousness becomes a cascade of questions: who did this? Why? What is happening to the wounded? How do we cope with the loss of the dead? What can we do to comfort their friends and families?

My own personal thoughts turn first to the victims, of course; but then they fall on those whose duty it is to pick up the pieces, sort them out, reassemble that scaffold of order and stability that people rely on society to provide. the first responders, firefighters, rescue personnel, law enforcement officers, doctors and nurses and technicians, all stand between us, the citizens, and the horror of death and harm.

A lot of us harbor a certain affection for Boston, even if we've never been there, because it's the home town of the characters we adore. So this crime hits home a little more than it might anywhere else. It's traumatic. We all cope with trauma in different ways. Me, I write about it. Is that exploitive? No. You need to know where the hurt is, be sensitive, don't pretend to know what you don't. You can tell a story that illuminates the human side of what happened, how people in the midst of it are affected, how they react, how they pull through.

We all do this, I think, for two reasons, the same two reasons people have been telling and writing stories since there was such a thing as language: to find meaning and to entertain. And I'm not saying that one purpose is "higher" than the other. While for each writer, participation in the fan fiction phenomenon is a hobby, an audition, a practice session, a confidence builder, a demonstration, none of the pieces we see, of whatever quality, are bereft of those two basic essential functions. The only thing we don't get from these stories is material gain; although I know it is the hope of some of us to use these stories as a steppingstone to a professional writing career. Whatever our personal goals, we should always be aware that entertainment and meaning are the freight our stories carry, intended by us or not. Our _readers_ will look for them, even if we don't consciously insert them in our work.

So I _can_ write about what happened on April 15, 2013. Maybe I _should_ write about it. Maybe I, in my own non-establishment way, can illuminate meaning in this horror from the ground up, different from all the media-fueled books that will come out later. And there is meaning.

It might not be as much fun. But it might also be satisfying.

The story I started above will be finished. It'll develop as I learn more about what really happened there. It will be finished largely because of two people.

One is a friend I made long ago, who made his career as an EMT in a large Midwestern city. He retired not long ago, but he keeps a packed suitcase and a medical kit in his closet, and when something like yesterday happens, he takes his bags, kisses his wife, and is on his way to the scene as soon as he hears about it. He's always welcome; trained EMT'S available to augment a city's force are hard to find. Dedication. Caring. Pride. He's probably in Boston right now.

The other is a fellow writer; she, too, writes R&I stories on FF. She was the first to review a story of mine when I began posting here about six months ago, and she has been very encouraging. She inspires me because she is a very talented and thoughtful writer, and has developed into a friend I've never met. She lives in the Boston area, but she assures me she's okay. I want to thank her for her help.


End file.
